


And So The Dream Goes

by Mx_Dragon



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24545656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Dragon/pseuds/Mx_Dragon
Summary: A collection of semi-silly, semi-serious Walter/Henry smut originally published about 12 years ago on Y!Gallery under the username screamer1234.
Relationships: Walter Sullivan/Henry Townshend
Comments: 5
Kudos: 32





	1. Pretty Picture

Walter may have been a psychotic serial killer, but he was no liar. He really did watch Henry, day in and day out.

But if he had known it was going to be this boring, he wouldn’t have bothered.

Even amidst the hauntings and desperate skirmishes and bleeding inanimate objects that now made up Henry’s life, he had an immovably rigid routine. A few days in whichever one of Walter’s worlds demanded attention or beckoned hopefully with clues, then back to the apartment to gulp down canned food and sleep fitfully on the couch, revolver in hand. And repeat. And repeat. Sigh. If possible, his new habits were even more monotonous than his old; at least he'd gotten new issues of his magazines every week and occasionally gone outside to shop for groceries or spend quality time with his camera. Walter toyed with the idea of causing the garbage disposal to emit earsplitting, tortured shrieks just to see if it would affect him, but his thoughts were interrupted by the scuffle of Henry’s return.

Walter watched lazily from his physically-impossible vantage point as Henry emerged from the hole, wary-eyed for any ghosts or random demons that might somehow have made their way in. Satisfied for the moment that he was safe, he straightened up and walked to the kitchen, dug through the almost-barren cupboards for the first can that came to hand, and pried it open. _He even eats like a hunted thing_ , Walter observed to no one but himself—head bowed, back hunched, trying to get it all down before some wicked thing could take advantage of his distraction. Some ancient memory licked at his thoughts, a little boy who gulped down his meals with the same terrified fervor before the other children could steal them or his caretakers confiscate them in punishment, and he felt an odd twinge of sympathy.

Henry finished the can, dropped it quietly in the garbage, and then flopped on the couch, arms and legs splayed wide and eyes dreamily closed.

Walter’s eyebrows rose minutely. This would mean nothing with a normal person, but Henry had been neat and meticulous in every action even before paralyzing terror became part of his daily life. Why would he move so suddenly, take a position so…exposed? _Or am I just being paranoid?_ he thought. _Maybe it means nothing._

Henry began to unbutton his dress shirt. Walter’s eyes widened. _Or maybe not._

His first impulse was _I shouldn’t watch, I should look away_ , but he didn’t. Henry had always fascinated him, and not just because he was chosen to be the Receiver. Besides, it would be interesting to see just what made Henry so deviate from routine. Miss Galvin, perhaps, or short-skirted Temptation from the subway? He kept his eyes on the man before him, admiring the shirtless torso being slowly revealed. Another anomaly—Henry always wore two layers—but they were getting more and more pleasant, so he didn’t dwell on them.

Almost before the buttons were all undone, Henry’s hand was stroking slowly down his chest and stomach, drawing forth a deep, rich sigh. The hand returned up to pinch and tweak a stiffening nipple and the sigh ended in a hitched breath, his face flushing red, while his other settled onto the back of the couch. Walter was just barely aware of his own breath coming heavier. He swallowed thickly.

The touches soon became less caressing and more forceful, scratching quickly reddening paths across his pale flesh. Henry hissed and squirmed and gasped whenever his untrimmed nails caught a nipple, and each pleasured sound, each writhe of that lean body went straight to Walter’s groin. Walter’s pants were getting uncomfortably tight and he had to stifle a moan when Henry suddenly left off his stroking and hastily unzipped his jeans. Henry palmed his own erection through the fabric and made no effort to stop his own high whine of need.

This was just too much. Walter gave a growl so low as to be inaudible and fumbled to free his aching length, gasping as his hand wrapped around it. He bit his lower lip ferociously at the sight of Henry’s hand disappearing inside his jeans and his head thrown back to expose his neck, so temptingly submissive, so _deliciously_ wanton. Henry gave a ragged groan and Walter could not help but echo it as their hands pumped and squeezed in careless counterpoint. Henry didn’t seem to notice.

The heat in Walter’s gut coiled tighter and tighter as their pants and gasps grew louder together. He simply could not tear his eyes from Henry’s wet, parted lips. At the thought of that mouth lapping sloppily and sucking hot at his throbbing flesh, Walter bit down on his lip so hard that he tasted blood. The pain and the creeping sensation of rapid healing brought him back to his senses somewhat, but didn’t stop lust spiking through him with every breathlessly pleasured noise from the man lying so exposed to his ravenous eyes on the dingy couch.

Both of them were painfully close. Henry’s left hand was white with the force of his grip on the couch’s back and the movements of his right were speeding up. That sinful mouth was open and slack with pleasure; it was all too easy for Walter to imagine Henry beneath him wearing such a face, mewling with every thrust and begging for more, faster, _harder_. A near-constant stream of whimpers, gasps, and half-formed entreaties escaped from his Receiver’s lips, climbing in pitch and volume. Each syllable sent heat surging through Walter’s flesh and they were coming thick and fast now, blurring together into a single continuous plea for release. Henry’s chest heaved, his body shook and his hips bucked frantically as he gave a hoarse yell of, “Oh, God, _Walter!_ ”

Walter’s eyes bugged and he exploded helplessly with a roar, shudders wracking his body. He collapsed onto his knees, panting, and clumsily zipped up his soiled pants and coat with trembling hands. He looked up again just in time to see Henry withdraw his hand from his jeans, raise it to his lips, and suckle at the white-coated digits with a satisfied sigh. Walter gave a snarl half-angry, half-pleading at the sight of that flickering pink tongue and greedy mouth and fled, heedless of direction, leaving Henry in silence.

Henry gave an uncharacteristic, almost Walter-esque smirk as he licked the last strands of cum from his fingers, a smirk he had been holding back since he’d heard Walter’s first moan. _That’ll teach the bastard to spy on me._


	2. The Voices In My Head

_Well, fuck_ , thought Henry. _Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea after all._

Ever since he had put on that little show in his living room, it had haunted the corners of his thoughts until he thought he would go crazy. An ironic idea, in view of the circumstances. Evidently, he could handle flaming, chocolate-milk-loving ghosts and savage dogs with disturbingly long tongues and cannibalistic habits, but not this. Not the recollection of lying on his back like a slut with his hand down his pants, relishing each low, ill-suppressed noise of Walter’s pleasure and the knowledge of what he had to be doing to him. What Walter had to be doing to _himself_.

“The one crazy thing I ever do and it comes back and bites me in the ass,” he grumbled to himself. It wasn’t two seconds before the little perverted voice in his head was whispering shockingly graphic puns on that theme, involving his face buried in the cushions of that cursed couch and Walter’s sharp teeth on his skin. Henry ground his jaw and punched a balled-up fist into his thigh.

“Damn it! This is exactly what I’m talking about!” he yelled in a rare fit of temper, startling several otherwise unshakeable cockroaches. They scurried back into the dark crannies from whence they came, perhaps wondering in their tiny insect brains if Henry had finally lost it.  
  


* * *

  
“What the hell?”

It was all that would come out of his slackly gaping mouth. Quite understandable, coming from someone who’d just entered a door he’d never seen before in the apartment he’d inhabited for two years. But by this point Henry was fairly familiar with mysterious passageways appearing out of nowhere. For all he knew—or cared—the door had been there all along and led to a casino in Purgatory. His head hurt, but he was used to that, too. No, what really bothered him was the _corpse_ of Walter Sullivan, stuck up on a _cross_ made of metal and mesh and decorated at the hands with black fucking _bird feathers_. He thought that maybe he could’ve handled it if it weren’t for the feathers. That was just too goddamn weird.

After a solid minute of gawking at the statue-thing, he pulled himself together and began wondering what to do about it. Was it some kind of clue? More importantly, was it booby-trapped? He stole cautiously forward, ready to flee if some demonic, slavering tapeworm burst out of the chest like in that sci-fi movie he saw on TV a few years ago, but nothing happened. He prodded it with the handle of his pickaxe and hastily withdrew. Nothing. No monsters or ghosts or freaky messages. Finally, he crept close and laid a bizarrely steady hand on its calf. He observed the numbers carved into the tops of the feet—11121—but other than that, zip.

Apparently, it was just a body. The body of a psychopathic serial killer, yes, a body which had been very much on his mind lately and which was decorated and displayed with an artistic dementia, but just a body nonetheless, and by now those were almost passé. Walter was a complete lunatic, and it showed in his choice of materials, but he did have a certain flair. It would make an interesting picture. It wouldn’t hurt his credibility with the cops, either, provided he ever found his way out of this psych ward. His mind wandered to the camera he’d left under his bed and he looked up to judge composition, then abruptly forgot all things photographical when he noticed Walter’s crotch was right in front of his face.

He jerked away and blushed hotly. The unwanted ideas and fantasies he had been working so hard to suppress flooded his mind. His lips parted as he subconsciously considered…something, then tightened as he almost-panickedly shoved the thought away and blushed even harder. _Nonononononono_ , he chanted to himself, _not thinking about Walter like that, not him hard in my mouth, not him tangling his fingers in my hair and moaning_ _, definitely not moaning_ my name _, nononono_ —

“Boo.”

Henry looked up so quickly he heard his neck crack, which was alarming but hardly a concern because the corpse was _grinning down at him_ with that too-familiar smirk on his deathly pale lips. Henry choked back a shriek and stumbled backwards, back into something soft and warm and smelling of musk and blood, and strong arms covered in a rough blue coat wrapped around him. His arms were pinned against his sides in a hold surer than any vise and his pickaxe dropped to the floor with a loud, metallic clank. As he flailed and struggled like a dumb, panicked beast, filthy blonde hair tickled the back of his neck and Walter Sullivan whispered, “Henry Townshend.”

The power of speech deserted him. At the sound of Walter’s smooth voice, he gave an animal noise somewhere between a yell and a howl and redoubled his thrashing. His heel connected resoundingly with bone and Walter’s arms tightened dangerously, hard enough for his ribs to give an ominous creak. Henry stilled immediately. When Walter spoke again, he sounded more amused than hurt or even annoyed.

“Why so afraid, Henry? I won’t hurt you. I thought we knew each other better than that. I thought we were friends.”

Henry could barely hear him over the thunder of his heart, racing useless blood through his rubbery muscles and paralyzed lungs. He stared straight ahead with glazed, unseeing eyes, nearly limp but for his frantically heaving chest. _I’m going to die, I’m going to die right now, he’s going to kill me right here and no one’ll find me until Sunderland doesn’t get my rent, he’s pissed at me and now I’m going to die_ ran through his head like a litany. Like whatever mantra his bloodied, swaying doppelganger recited at his peephole. _I’m going to look just like him when Walter’s done with me._

Something broke through. “—or do you want me to hurt you? It seemed as if you enjoyed this, when you did it to yourself.” Walter darted a hand under Henry’s shirts and scraped at his nipple with one rough fingernail.

Henry froze. The sheer oddity of the move cleared his head somewhat and he croaked, “Wha…what?”

“You’re so strange, Henry. So different,” Walter muttered, almost absently, rubbing small circles into the abused nipple. Henry shivered. He wasn’t sure if it was from fear. “I’ve watched countless people inhabit Mother, seen them in every awkwardness, every human folly, and felt only indifference and contempt. No one ever…got my attention quite like you did.”

Henry felt his face flame and his gut tighten at the memory. It didn’t help that Walter was adding an occasional pinch to his ministrations. He tried to stifle a squeak when he felt Walter’s stubbled cheek rasp against his neck and failed when warm, wet lips started to kiss and suck at the delicate skin. His neck had always been a weak spot and he was soon sagging in Walter’s arms once again, albeit altogether more pleasantly. He was still confused as hell, though. This was _Walter Sullivan_ doing this to him, for God’s sake! This should not be happening in any sane universe! He should not be _letting_ this happen! He should not have even been _thinking_ about letting this happen! The small part of his brain that was still coherent squawked angrily at him to come to his senses.

But he didn’t listen.

Walter suckled at Henry’s thinly fluttering pulse and bit down. He gave a startled yelp, then bit back a sigh when the killer laved the injured spot with his tongue. When Henry’s knees were weak and shaking Walter lifted his head again, breathing hotly into Henry’s ear, “So…now you’ve got it. My full attention. What do you want to do with it?”

The single voice had become a lust-fogged cacophony, Henry’s pants had become uncomfortably tight, and the last of his rational thought processes were quickly being obliterated. All he could manage was, “I…I, uh…” This quickly lapsed into nonsense when Walter slid his hand under his shirts and skated the pads of his fingers along his ribcage.

Walter waited patiently for a few seconds. When it became obvious that Henry wasn’t going to say anything, he purred, “Well, I have some…ideas. My Receiver of Wisdom.” That was all the warning Henry got before a hand snaked into his jeans to roughly palm him through his underwear.

Henry yelped again and then whimpered as Walter pushed that last barrier aside and squeezed the hardness between his jellied legs. He was dimly aware of Walter smirking against his neck, then lost all awareness as his hand started to move in earnest. The sight of Walter’s hand bulging the fabric with every harsh stroke blurred past and present. His face and his whole body had been so hot, spread out on the couch for his nemesis, barely unbuttoned before he'd been so hard it hurt. The eyes he'd known were on him, what he'd known Walter was doing to himself—he'd been so hot and _so_ fucking hard and he’d come in a matter of minutes. Now he was laid open to that lecherous gaze again, open to his every murmur and caress and filthy idea, and he wished he didn’t find that thought quite so erotic but groaned desperately anyway. Precum dribbled slick, teasing traces down his throbbing flesh. He felt drugged, intoxicated with the Assumption’s warm grip and his animal smell and the green eyes he knew were glittering catlike behind him. It still wasn’t enough.

“Nn…m—more…” he mumbled, voice guttural with desire.

Stubble rasped on sensitive skin as Walter’s smirk split into a grin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that.”

A raw moan tore from Henry’s throat as Walter swiped his thumb through his leaking slit. “More! Please, Walter I want more!” he cried, ashamed and humiliated but too far gone to care.

There was a rolling, throaty noise, a mix between a chuckle and a lusty growl, and the warm hand, the iron grip pinning his arms to his sides, everything was suddenly gone. Henry gave a weak whine—oh, he was aching!—and bucked his hips pathetically into a humid friction that was no longer there. _No, no, don’t stop!_ That’d be just like the bastard, to tease him until he fucking begged and then leave him, impossibly hard and frustrated and with no choice but to debase himself right before his eyes, because _everywhere_ was right before his eyes and apparently Henry was into exhibitionism.

Suddenly he was pushed against the corpse-bearing cross, his jeans and underwear were yanked down to his knees, and Walter’s warm weight pressed flush against his back. The ubiquitous blue coat was open and he could feel a hardness pressing into the cleft of his ass with unmistakable intent; he moaned and blindly rocked his hips against it. Walter moaned a throaty reply and grasped his hips firmly to stop him. “So eager,” he drawled, but his voice was ragged and Henry grinned through his fog of lust. The grin was short-lived when dirty fingers tapped at his lips. He hesitated. Walter spoke again, imperiously, hypnotically. “Suck.”

Henry blushed but took the fingers into his mouth, lashing his tongue around them and trying to coat them as fully as he could. He knew what was coming next. Walter gave an almost-inaudible rumble that Henry swore he could _feel_ through his back and withdrew them, only to slip the first into him without warning. Henry sucked in a breath and fought down his instinct to tense up—it didn’t hurt, but it’d been a long time and it just felt so… _foreign_.

“Relax. It’ll be worse if you don’t,” came the languid voice, moments before a second, then a third slick finger pushed in deep and scissored. Now it did hurt and the sense of this-doesn’t-belong-here increased exponentially. Henry grunted. _Easy for him to say_.

Then Walter crooked his fingers and Henry almost screamed at the rush of white heat that burst through his veins. He clutched blindly at the metal frame of the cross and buried his face between the corpse’s legs; in the face of such sensation, it didn't even occur to him to be disgusted. All he could do was tremble and thrust his hips desperately back, begging for another touch like that, and he cried out again when the fingers twisted and dug savagely into his prostate. He felt as if he were about to explode.

Then they stilled. “Please, no, don’t stop,” he pleaded, words spilling out uncontrollably, “don’t stop, _don’t stop_ …” He wished he could shut up. A shapeless, needy whine escaped him at the feel of them slipping out altogether.

“Be patient, my Receiver—” He gasped in surprise and pain as Walter seized his hips and sheathed inside of him with a thick groan. “And you will be rewarded.” Henry had barely caught his breath when he withdrew almost fully and plunged back in, driving the air from his lungs. Walter repeated the motion smoothly, and again, and again, brushing that sweet rough spot inside him each time, and the pain was melting away and Henry trembled and moaned at the intrusion that had suddenly become such a satisfying fullness.

“Nn…W-Walter…” Henry yelped as Walter changed the angle of his thrusts, spearing his prostate with every stroke. “ _Ahhh!_ Ah…hah…feels so good, Walter…” he slurred, bleary with pleasure. He hated what he was saying, hated how he had somehow become such a subservient, mewling slut in the space of less than twenty minutes, but he had long since lost all control and could only babble and plead.

The Conjurer responded with a long, harsh suck where Henry’s shoulder became his neck and tightened his grasp on his hips until they bruised. “Do you like it, Henry?” he growled raggedly, speeding up his thrusts until Henry’s speech devolved into gibberish. “Do you like me fucking you? Do you like the feel of my cock?” He sank his teeth into the spot and Henry yelled in excruciatingly blended pleasure and pain.

“Yes! I like it! I like it!” Henry was so close he was practically delirious. “Please, fuck me, Walter, _please don’t stop!_ ”

Walter roughly grasped his weeping erection and that was all it took for Henry to come harder than he ever had in his life. Ecstasy exploded from him as his muscles spasmed and his voice cracked in a scream and Walter followed with a choked roar, thrusting wildly into his quivering Receiver. The hot, sticky feel of Walter’s release filling his insides pushed him further and he shuddered violently, his voice used up, as further waves spurted erratically from him. He slumped forward, panting, his weak grip on the cross and his enemy’s strong arms the only things keeping him upright.

It wasn’t long before Walter withdrew; he shivered at the aftershocks of pleasure the motion sparked through him. The hands and the warmth at his back left him and he twisted his head to look over his shoulder. Walter had zipped up his coat and was already leaving.

“H-hey!” he objected, hurriedly pulling up his jeans and facing Walter on unsteady legs. “Where the hell are you going?” He tried to ignore the sliding, leaking sensation in his ass and failed.

Walter didn’t even turn around. Indignant rage flared so suddenly in Henry’s gut that he was caught off balance. His stomach roiled until bile rose to the back of his throat and he snatched up his forgotten pickaxe. “Damn it, I’m _talking to you_!” He swung wildly at the departing figure—and the gleaming metal buried itself to the handle in Walter’s head with a solid, meaty _thwack_.

And Henry just stared. Any moment now, he was sure, a troupe of Gumheads would crash through the wall and sing “Happy Birthday,” barbershop-quartet style. Then he could accept once and for all that he had gone completely insane, blow his brains out with Richard’s revolver, and die happily ever after. But there was nothing, save for his own shaky breathing and the slow seep of crimson into Walter’s long blonde hair.

He jerked his hands away in a sudden paroxysm of revulsion and watched, dumbfounded, as Walter’s knees buckled and he dropped heavily to the floor. Blood had spread out into a good-sized pool before Henry had the presence of mind to retrieve the pickaxe—it was a weapon, he’d need it, but it didn’t really want to come out. He had to step close and push down on Walter’s head with one foot and _haul_ before it would even move. It finally yielded with a sick, wet slurp that echoed in the enclosing space and suddenly his head was hurting again, really hurting, like it was his own skull that’d been cracked open. He crumpled to the floor, right there beside the man he’d killed ( _Jesus, is he actually_ _dead_ _?_ ). A look of shock lingered on Walter’s slack face.

Then an unshod foot intruded into his field of vision, neatly lettered with scars—whatever the message was, he couldn’t read it through the agonies suddenly bursting his skull apart. With difficulty, he tracked his eyes up a black-clad leg and torso, up to an unshaven face framed with long white hair. Straight into the same bewitching green stare that lay glazing next to him.

“Wha…fuck?” he mumbled. His body chose that moment to give out completely and he collapsed to the floor. The Walter-clone ignored him. It bent down, reached around the body’s waist, and tucked him easily under one arm, as if carrying a sack of potatoes. From Henry’s prone angle, he could see that the metal cross stood empty. Walter’s limp, dragging legs hushed along the ground as it moved and Henry felt hysterical laughter bubble uncontrollably from inside of him. It was totally inappropriate and he just couldn’t stop and mercifully it passed as suddenly as it had come when the clone—the _corpse_ —turned and fixed him with its mesmerizing gaze. Its face was utterly blank for a moment, then split in that same lunatic grin with which it had first favored him. Its death-waxed lips moved and spoke.

“Until next time, Receiver,” it said, in the silken voice of the dead man it carried, and disappeared with its supernatural cargo.

Henry’s head exploded with pain and he sunk gratefully into unconsciousness.


	3. Burning Day

Walter had accepted long ago that, for some strange reason, Henry fascinated him; what he’d murmured in his ear that day (or that night) was true. Henry had gotten his attention in a way no other had, save possibly for Miss Galvin—but while Walter’s adulation for her was second only to his for Mother Herself, it was simple and tame in comparison to the emotions his Receiver now inspired. Sex had no place in his sacred task, the ritual that would bring Mother to glorious awakening, and he’d always felt nothing but revolted scorn for it and those who engaged in it. It was disgusting and totally irrelevant, laughable at best. Superfluous. Unnecessary. Then a shy, brown-haired photographer had clumsily touched himself and all that had just gone straight to hell.

Walter angrily fingered the pistol in his pocket. And what had he done about it? How had he addressed his newfound, inappropriate, _completely undignified_ urges? He’d found Henry in the hidden room where he kept his mortal body. He’d drawn upon his long memory of all the idiot couples that had come and gone through Mother, of what they’d done together and how they’d done it—and he’d _fucked_ him.

Memories surfaced unbidden of nerve-tingling whimpers and moans, a wild pulse beating under his mouth, the way Henry clenched hot and tight and trembling around him, and lust viciously tightened his groin. He almost screamed with frustration. The tempered-steel nerves that let him physically and emotionally shrug off death by a pickaxe to the head were utterly shredded; his patience, infinite in the service of his holy task, had evaporated completely.

_How can he affect me like this?_ he raged. _It makes no sense!_ Especially since the culprit impulses, far from leaving him, had actually gotten worse. Inappropriate and undignified as it may have been, fucking the Receiver should have at least let Walter get him out of his system. Instead, he caught himself thinking about Henry for no reason. _All the time_. And it wasn’t the feel of his skin or the lust-choked noises he made—well, it was those too, definitely, but it was also his determination, how hard he fought to protect Miss Galvin, how he so stoically bore all of the horrors of Walter’s world as a mortal man. How he chewed his lip when he was thinking. How his brown hair flopped forward into his eyes—Richard’s ghost had shot Walter four times since the “incident” because the entire time he’d been so distracted he might as well have been asleep.

_I want…more. I want more, but what more_ is _there?_

He was still for a long minute. “I will go and find him,” he at last said aloud, carefully, as if dictating to an especially dim secretary. “Maybe I can find out why…” He strode off decisively to Mother, to his Twenty-First Sacrament, and all the demons and ghosts parted like the Red Sea before him. Something about him today just scared the shit out of them.  
  


* * *

  
Henry crawled to the edge of the red-ringed hole in his bathroom, swung his legs over the edge, and dropped down. He’d planned on just scouting around today without Eileen (she was really starting to worry him; he’d left her in her room, armed with a Saint Medallion and her heavy chain, staring blankly at the wall and feebly sobbing some tune he’d never heard before) but the ghosts were unusually mobile and aggressive—even Joseph had clawed for him, almost drunkenly, before recognition pulled him up short. Every area in every world was thick with their headache-inducing aura and he had already run out of Holy Candles. Fortunately, he kept an emergency stash in the chest-of-drawers in his bedroom.

He didn’t put down his golf club as he rooted through the third drawer down. After what had happened ten days ago in the hidden room, he wasn’t willing to go around unarmed, even for thirty seconds in his own apartment.

Or rather, he was all too willing, and that just terrified him. He bit his lip. That little episode had taken his most tormenting thoughts and filled his head completely with them, made them so vivid that he had to slip away from Eileen multiple times a day with some flimsy excuse so he could jerk off. If he’d thought he was losing his mind before, he was definitely losing it now. His restive sleep was still free of the Conjurer, thank God, but it was only a matter of time—some day soon he’d wake up from a dream of sucking Walter’s cock, with semen gluing his thighs together and a hand between his legs, and know that he’d at last gone completely insane. _The whole thing with the pickaxe and the corpse isn’t helping, either,_ he reflected ironically. But he’d found dead cats swaddled in bloody shirts at the bottom of his refrigerator, he was used to that level of weird…and that right there was perhaps more frightening than everything else put together. He finally unearthed the precious candles from under a pile of socks and breathed a relieved sigh. _It’s starting to look safer outside than in._

And suddenly there was a heavy tread on the floor behind him, the flap of coarse fabric, and the reek of musk and blood.  
  


* * *

  
Henry whirled and swung the golf club in a wild arc. It did little good; Walter casually caught the weapon one-handed. “Receiver,” he stated simply.

Henry’s face smoothed into a careful blank, but his body began to stir with fine tremors under the unblinking green gaze. “What…do you want?”

It was impossible to tell if he was angry or terrified. It didn’t matter, anyway. Walter tugged the golf club from his grasp and tossed it on the floor behind him.

Henry set his jaw. “What? Why are you here? Haven’t you—”

Walter cut him off. “Tell me what you did to me.”

If this hadn’t been such a serious matter, Henry’s open-mouthed astonishment might have been amusing. “What I—what I did to _you_? You trapped me in an apartment from Hell! You killed four people and forced me to watch!” His volume rose steadily. “You broke Eileen’s arm and carved numbers in her back! You’ve chased us down with a goddamn chainsaw! You—” His face colored and he swallowed hard. “What the _fuck_ are you talking about, you murdering psycho?”

An enraged Henry was a rare sight. A bewildered, highly aggravated Walter was a lethal one. In a flash Henry was pinned to the wall with a bone-jarring thud, one supernaturally strong hand crushing his throat and the other in Walter’s pocket, itching obviously at his pistol. “You’re plaguing me!” he roared. “I can’t go a second without you invading my mind! What did you do to me?”

Henry kicked uselessly and clutched at Walter’s arm. His feeble attempts at escape were ignored. “How can I stop it? Will touching you again—” He tore at Henry’s dress shirt with his other hand, forcing the buttons off with rapid pops, and hastily pushed up the second to explore beneath.

A strangled bark clawed from Henry’s throat and he lashed out with his right fist. The attack was totally uncalculated and Walter should have dodged it, but in his current distracted state, the haphazard punch cracked solidly into his mouth. He dropped his prey with a surprised grunt. Henry promptly seized his shoulders and slammed him bodily against the wall. “Not again, it’s _my_ turn now,” he snarled into his face. Walter snarled back and every muscle bunched as he brought his fearsome strength to bear—just as Henry crushed his lips in a bruising kiss.

And for the first time in a long, _long_ time, Walter was at a total loss.

This was new. This was different. He’d seen people press their mouths together, of course, in greeting or farewell or in the midst of coupling before his contemptuous eyes, and he had dismissed it as an unnecessary part of an already-unnecessary act. A formality. Oh, he knew what using one’s mouth could do to another person—he’d seen it, he’d used his own on Henry to great effect, extracted the noises that haunted him more persistently than any ravaged ghost. But a mere press of lips had no real power. It was too innocent. Too simple.

But if that was true, why did it empty his mind more completely than a bullet?

He must have gaped in astonishment, because warm, wet muscle invaded his mouth, curling and tasting the slippery copper from wounds already closed. He responded without a thought and their tongues tangled zealously. He was vaguely aware of hands shifting from his shoulders, one settling onto his lower back and the other tangling in his hair. This new thing lit a fire in him and somehow at the same time fed a long-suppressed hunger—a simple need, the simplest, whose name nevertheless escaped him with his Receiver’s own persistence. Henry withdrew to suckle greedily at Walter’s lower lip, which buckled his knees and precluded further thought, then plunged back in like he wouldn’t last more than a moment without the taste of him.

Walter wrapped his arms around Henry’s shoulders and pressed forward as if trying to melt into the younger man. He couldn’t get enough, not enough of his warm, fervent mouth, his insistently darting tongue, the hearthfire heat of his body, the subtle tickling of his stubble, his clean odor of spiced soap and fresh sweat. He relished the way his scalp tingled as Henry’s fingers roughly combed through his hair—no one had ever touched him like that before. He drank in the sensations and found himself growing addicted to them, even faster than he’d become addicted to the feel of Henry surrounding him. His hunger swelled as fast as he could sate it.

Walter gave the soft, chapped lips an experimental bite and, emboldened by the low, hormonal purr he received, drew the hot tongue back into his mouth and sucked. Henry moaned urgently into his mouth and rocked hard against him, erection apparent even through the heavy blue coat. He was suddenly aware of how uncomfortable his pants had become; returning the moan, he ground his pelvis up into his Receiver’s.

There was a helpless whine and Henry pulled away to hold him at arm’s length, irresistibly flushed and panting, eyes dark with longing. Walter growled at the interruption but restrained himself. If he scraped up what was left of his patience, maybe he could discover how to resolve this whole mess and get back the rest.  
  


* * *

  
Never before had a simple kiss set Henry afire like this. What remained of his conscience—or perhaps it was his sanity—complained faintly that the sweet mouth in which his senses drowned belonged to a murderer, a madman, a living ghost, but nothing could call him back now. Walter was clumsy and unbearably warm and so responsive he couldn’t help but devour him, searching for what made him moan, what made his arms tighten about his shoulders, what made the killer’s body rise in supplication to his own. He hadn’t realized the depth of his need until it consumed him and it was too late to stop.

Already dangerously faint with the taste of his enemy’s mouth and his heady, utterly alien scent, Henry nearly lost himself altogether when Walter sucked at his tongue. He ground their hips together in frenzied lust and Walter responded so _eagerly_ that he had to push him away for fear he’d simply fly apart.

He wanted him. He wanted him so badly that every second he waited threatened his sanity. The Assumption panted through damp, reddened, kiss-swollen lips, his eyes were almost black with want, and it wasn’t his sanity after all but his very life that would end if he didn’t kiss him again. Henry complied.  
  


* * *

  
Lost in Henry’s heat and touch, it came as a surprise to Walter when the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed. When had they moved? Didn’t matter, really. He sat and pulled Henry into his lap without breaking the kiss, smirking at his startled squeak, then groaned when Henry squirmed to kick off his shoes. He quickly did the same and pulled away to gasp for breath, letting the smaller man struggle out of his shirts. He watched, entranced by the darkly peaked nipples and lithe muscles that slid beneath tanned skin, and moved to seal their lips together again as soon as he was free. He was interrupted, however, by Henry tugging on the zipper of his coat.

Irrational fear lanced ice through him. He hurriedly swallowed it, but not before his hand had shot out to seize Henry’s wrist or, he suspected, it showed on his face. The coat was his armor, his shelter, the barrier that stood so impenetrably between him and every coldness and cruelty of the outside world. He’d worn it as long as he could remember—since his death, since his first murder, since Wish House. Since he'd been born, it felt like. So was his reaction really so incredible? He wasn’t _afraid_. The move had caught him off guard, that was all. Henry’s hooded olive eyes met his—was that a flicker of sympathy? Of pity? He let go, hastily, face burning in a way no less distasteful for its unfamiliarity.

Thankfully, Henry resumed his work without a word, and Walter soon forgot any reservations he might have had as warm hands slid promiscuously under his thin black shirt. He quickly pulled it off just before Henry captured his mouth again.  
  


* * *

  
Henry deepened the kiss, slightly sobered in spite of it, and tasted him in long draughts before pulling away. He knew very little about Walter, but what he did know was grim: lifelong, universal abandonment, neglect, and abuse, made bearable—perhaps even survivable—only by his fanatical, dubious dream that one day he would be reunited with his Mother. For all his fearsome, unnatural power, he was childish in many ways…and painfully vulnerable. The brief, intimate panic that had overtaken Walter’s eyes stabbed that knowledge into someplace that felt uncomfortably like his heart. _Oh, d_ _amn it. That’s just what I need._ He pushed the thought away and absorbed himself in the planes and angularities of Walter’s muscular torso, memorizing them with his hands and causing the Conjurer’s breath to hitch.

He placed his hand in the center of his chest and pushed gently. Walter humored him, lay obediently back, self-assured and obviously curious about what came next. Henry straddled him and was aware of watchful green eyes as he stretched over to his bedside table drawer to retrieve a bottle of lotion. The eyes closed when he descended and took one ruddy nipple into his mouth, suckling and licking enthusiastically, then abandoned it to continue downwards.

Walter’s abdominal muscles jumped as Henry distributed brief, wet kisses over them, raising short-lived welts with an occasional nip and proceeding lower at an agonizing pace. Walter maintained a stoic silence until Henry dipped his tongue into his navel. He groaned between clenched teeth, “H-Henry…”

Henry’s stomach flopped. He fumbled at the fastenings to Walter’s pants, pulled them off, and coated his fingers in the lotion. His other hand settled on one sharp hipbone. He slipped one slick finger into him and, at the same moment, before there could be any protest, sealed his lips around the purpled head of his cock.

Walter cried out throatily and his hips jerked up, straining against the weight that fettered them and his own clearly cracking self-control. Henry pressed in to the knuckle and added a second digit, flexing them inside of him, and lowered his head to engulf as much of the straining length as he could. The ruthless, legendary killer writhed under him and threw back his head and _whimpered_. Astonishment stilled him for a moment, but lust quickly subsumed it and he sucked hungrily at the turgid flesh, his fingers rushing.  
  


* * *

  
Walter’s iron will had never been more sorely tested. The fires of Hell itself consumed his entire being, drove him to just seize his Receiver and fuck him face-down on the bed until he screamed, but no, he had to be still. It was moronic to expect anything to change if he just kept repeating himself. He had to learn Henry’s way. He had to restrain himself while Henry pressed against him and kissed him and touched him and used his mouth on him. It was torture and it felt so, _so_ good.

He held back a flinch at the finger probing inside him, but he couldn’t keep from crying out at the wet heat that enveloped his swollen, aching head. He shuddered and bucked vainly for more and whimpered with pleasure when his wish was granted. The second finger went unregistered until both crooked just _so_ , brushing against an odd rough patch inside him. He cried out again, breathy and pleading and guttural. “ _Henry!_ ” It was an abject surrender that he somehow didn’t mind at all.

A molten tongue swirled avidly; a third finger entered. Walter didn’t know which he’d die from first. His chest heaved as he fought for breath. “Mmnngh, oh _God_ …H-Henry, I’m…I’m going to…”

And then the fingers and mouth were gone and he bit back an aggrieved moan—just as Henry plunged into him and it spilled out anyway.  
  


* * *

  
The sheer want in Walter’s voice nearly derailed him. It took every ounce of control Henry had to finish preparing him adequately (he hadn’t forgotten precisely who twisted beneath him, or what he could do in a moment of rage), but when he eased in it was so hot and tight and _heaven_ that he couldn’t stop himself from just shoving in to the hilt. Walter echoed him—he didn’t seem to mind—as he groaned rawly and withdrew and thrust back in, back in, again and again. He buried his face in Walter’s neck and sucked hard on the long white scars encircling it like old stigmata. There was that delicious whimper again and the Conjurer wrapped his legs around his lower back to pull him deeper still.

“Henry …?” The killer’s voice was broken and ragged; Henry looked up into hypnotic, half-closed green eyes and lost his breath at the desire that saturated them. The bruises he’d inflicted on his throat were already fading. “Kiss me…again…?”

He was all too happy to oblige. Their mouths pressed sloppily together, the kiss little more than a messy clash of tongues and teeth. Walter tugged him even closer with a hand on the back of his head and stroked his ribs in a bizarrely loving fashion. Then his body arched violently off the bed and his hands dropped to grip cruelly at the sheets. Henry thrust over and over into that spot, making sure not to change his angle, and drank in the increasingly abandoned noises he coaxed from his enemy. He was close and he knew Walter was close too.

He grasped Walter’s erection and pumped until Walter spilled over his hand with a garbled howl that might have been Henry’s name. The frantic, rippling clutch of his body sent Henry over the edge as well, with a jaggedly protracted groan. His muscles trembled, then gave out and he collapsed onto the bed beside him, struggling to catch his breath. Walter rolled over and they spent a minute or two simply panting, face-to-face, before the murderer leaned in to press a warm, chaste kiss to his lips. Too exhausted to dwell on the peculiarly intimate gesture, Henry barely returned it before his eyes closed and sleep swallowed him.  
  


* * *

  
His mind was unnervingly fuzzy, but he could tell he was lying on something soft. Something soft and warm that smelled of salt and spices and the heavy musk of sex, very close to something else that exuded heat like a radiator and seemed to be the source of the scent. Walter cracked an eyelid—why had his eyes been closed?—and saw that the light coming in the window had changed from orange afternoon to the clarity of morning in less than an hour.

_What is going on?_ he pondered blearily. The answer came to him after a minute or two. _Was I…asleep? Did I fall asleep?_ He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept at all, let alone so soundly or for so long. Memories seeped slowly back like groundwater and he realized that he was in Henry’s bedroom. In his bed, to be precise.

Huh.

He slipped back into unconsciousness after this observation. His original mission nagged in vain.  
  


* * *

  
Henry woke with an arm slung possessively around his waist and warm breath feathering across his cheek. He was disoriented until he remembered that he’d slept with Walter. For some reason, this didn’t bother him as much as it should have. However, when he moved to get out of bed, a growl rumbled from the otherwise dead-to-the-world body behind him and the arm tightened in warning.

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled, only half-awake, and stayed put.


	4. ...Is Fair Play

Henry was beautiful like this.

It was cliché, yes, a thought like that, and more than a little maudlin, but Walter could not help thinking it. How could anyone disagree with Henry twisting bare-chested beneath them, head thrown back and muscles sliding under sweat-slick skin and a sweet red blush creeping up his neck? He’d pinned Henry’s thighs under his kneeling weight and his wrists with one hand, so that his poor Receiver could do nothing but writhe as he slowly stroked and pumped his straining erection. He ran deft fingers like water down the veins of his shaft, cupped his balls, flicked the backs of his nails along his moistening slit—

“Nngh, yes, _ohh_ —”

—and then he’d abandon it to caress his belly and thighs, returning and sensually touching and backing away again. He teetered him on the edge of madness. He teased the younger man until he _wailed_.

“Oh _God_ , Walter, just—” Henry’s face flushed still darker.

He bared his teeth. Yes, Henry was more than beautiful, consumed with need and totally at his mercy. His own erection ached at the sight.

Walter leaned down to nip at his ear and run a wet, hot tongue along Henry’s jaw, savoring the small, helpless noises he made, and licked down to the neck he’d learned was so delightfully sensitive. His hand never slackened its torment while he raked sharp teeth over the lesser column of his throat. Henry thrashed, whimpering, and his cock throbbed in Walter’s hand as he sucked hard, marring and welting the tanned skin as so pleased him.

And he was pleased. The dark bruises he left were striking, perfect, imprints left by the dusty wings of moths. Henry’s body was not like his—these marks would linger for days, memory made flesh, scribbled notes of sex on skin. He was leisurely in his nips, his bites, his sucks and his licks and his careful, calculated touch that brought release so close and let it slip away as if he’d never touched him at all. By the time he was satisfied, Henry was coming to pieces beneath him.

“Oohh, Walter, _please_ —” Henry sobbed. His hips jerked and he shuddered all over with desperation. The end of the sentence was nearly inaudible. “…just f-fuck me already…” If his blush could have gotten any deeper, it would have.

“A tempting prospect,” Walter remarked, conversationally, though the words nearly doubled him over with lust. It truly was a wonder, how they could affect each other so: the provident proof of their holy connection. “But I’m afraid I must refuse.” He squeezed, enjoying the way Henry’s face contorted, how his cock was already weeping at the simple touch of his hands. Then he stroked, hard, pulling pleasure out of him by force.

His darling prey’s head snapped back. “Walter _,_ don’t _stop_!”

Walter grinned ferally. “That’s right, say my name, Henry…” His lips brushed Henry’s ear as he murmured, silken and deadly, “But don’t you dare come.”

Henry’s sharp cry of dismay and fear went unheeded as Walter pressed his bursting length against his belly with the heel of his hand. He rubbed along the sensitive underside with warm fingertips, suckled and bit at his throat, unrestrained and utterly merciless. The thought of his Receiver fanned so hot and now _this_ , this inhuman cruelty, this truly wicked torture, spurred him until shivers ran through his entire body with every whimper and wanting moan. Henry finally cried out, “Please—oh God, _please!_ ” and Walter found himself panting, so sweet were the sounds of his Receiver’s desperation—oh, yes, so sweet were the cries of the brother who She had chosen for him!

The murderer released Henry’s neck and caressed the swollen head of his abused, leaking cock, just barely grazing the slit with his fingertips. Henry squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip ferociously, dribbling one drop of crimson dark over his chin. Walter couldn’t stop a rough, deprived moan. He wanted to make Henry suck him off with that soft, red-dripping mouth until he couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted to fuck him hard all night until Henry couldn’t walk and they’d have to spend all the next day in bed together. Dear God, he wanted to _kiss_ him!

With effort, he controlled himself. Teasing his Receiver was ultimately so much more rewarding.

He licked Henry’s mouth and chin clean, tongue dipping between his lips for traces of copper. Henry struggled to lift his head, to capture his mouth; Walter pulled away, coiled his fingers tight, and pumped until Henry whined high in his throat. Walter favored him with a sneer. The lust rough in his voice and darkening his eyes diminished its effect somewhat, but his Receiver was hardly in any condition to point this out.

“Look at you, mewling on your back with my hand around your cock,” he rasped, breath a hot rush in his ear. Henry _moaned_. “Spread out right in front of me. Whimpering for me, so loud Miss Galvin can hear through that hole in her wall…and I just know the ghosts are watching, too. Everyone knows what I’m doing to you, Henry, and how much you love it.”

Walter rubbed his thumb over the weeping slit until his victim writhed like a tortured eel and bit his lips bloody with the effort of holding back. Rich red streaked and spoiled his cheeks, glossed his swollen mouth, trickled lasciviously over his chin and the slender contours of his throat. Walter had to shut his eyes to stop himself from devouring him. He growled huskily, “So exposed, Henry—so _vulnerable_. I can do anything I want to you. Anything I can think of. You’re _mine_.”

Henry made a choked, featureless noise and drenched Walter’s hand. At the sight of his prey’s body thrashing with release, his face contorted in almost painful ecstasy, Walter couldn’t resist any longer. _Oh, you are_ _exquisite,_ _my Receiver. My Henry._ Walter kissed him hard and moaned at the taste of blood.

Walter jerked him off roughly, almost violently, swallowing his strained cries of pleasure until he gave up his last shuddering spurt and fell back limply on the bed. The noise of his panting was harsh in air heavy with pheromones. As Henry struggled to regain his breath, Walter let go of his wrists and swiped his fingers through the mess coating Henry’s chest and belly. Capturing half-closed olive eyes with lecherous green, he sucked lazily, eyes closing briefly at the taste of his Receiver, tongue snaking for wayward strands and spots of white. He smirked wide when he heard a weak groan.

“ _Naughty_ , Henry…I told you not to come. I’ll have to punish you,” Walter purred. He rubbed small circles into his victim’s cum-slick, hypersensitive head. Henry gasped and bucked his hips, squirming erratically and releasing small noises of protest at the sensory overload. Walter’s tone was almost idle. “Now, what do you think—”

Faster than he could follow, Henry hooked his calves around Walter’s ankles, gripped his shoulders, and wrenched his own torso. Walter abruptly found himself on his back, trapped as thoroughly as his Receiver had been only seconds before, and staring up into a grin that could only be described as fanged. What little remained of his sense of fear flickered cold in the pit of his stomach, but then Henry sealed their mouths together and thought bled away. He arched into him, as always overwhelmed by the smell and taste of his Receiver, and they both groaned as Henry’s rapidly returning erection ground against Walter’s neglected and straining length.

The hot, rich mouth abruptly retreated and was replaced by blunt fingers; he bit at them lightly, then sucked with abandon. Henry growled. Walter shivered and coated them with liberal laps of his tongue.

Before slick digits slipped in and Walter stopped thinking altogether, his lips curved in smug, lustful satisfaction. This really was so much more rewarding.


End file.
